


Good Things

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chocolate and Chips, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Idiots in Love, John is Perfect, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock also getting slightly overwhelmed, The food of love, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22724086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: When Sherlock returns from Scotland Yard with a pile of cold-case files from Lestrade under one arm and some chocolate for John in hand, it’s to find 221B completely transformed.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day or whatever. This might be the last Sherlock fic I write for a while as I'm attempting to take a break from the fandom for a multitude of reasons, but I wanted to write something for Valentine's.

* * *

When Sherlock returns from Scotland Yard with a pile of cold-case files from Lestrade under one arm and some chocolate for John in hand, it’s to find 221B completely transformed.

Well - perhaps that’s an exaggeration. But it certainly seems that way, on first glance; the lights are settled low, the lamps casting a gentle ambiance over a spotless lounge, the vinyl player they picked up as part of the revamp humming out a soft tune in the corner; the curtains closed, shutting out the world and bickering couples and the neighbour across the way who is screaming at her boyfriend on the street because he didn’t propose. The middle of the lounge presents itself as quite the scene; the coffee-table, covered with a cloth and set for a meal for two; cutlery and wine-glasses, with a couple of small tea-candles in the middle. There’s something confetti-like scattered over the cloth; rose-petals, Sherlock surmises on closer inspection, to match, no doubt, the single red-rose propped up in the middle in – wait, is that one of his test-tubes?

‘There you are,’ John pops out of the kitchen, smiling, two white-paper bundles in hand and before Sherlock’s eyes, scurries to put them onto the plates. ‘That’s great, then this won’t get cold. You haven’t eaten already, have you?’ he glances up; the question, of course, is a formality more than anything. Sherlock never eats when he’s conferring with Lestrade – the cold case files were a treat, more than anything, something to keep his brain occupied, but still…

‘No,’ Sherlock blinks. ‘No, I…no.’

‘Good, then.’ John lays the bundles down and stands to attention, relaxed and smiling; all that’s missing is the substandard tea-towel thrown over one shoulder. Sherlock stares; does a quick sweep of the flat.

His first thought, of course, is that John has a date; a date for Valentine’s, a lady friend that Sherlock knew absolutely nothing about, who might have met Rosie on the sly, who John might possibly be keeping to himself and working up to explaining to him. But John is staring with an expression rather close to expectation, looking quite comfortable in his softest blue jumper (usually worn on cases, comfortable for running, brings out the twinkle in his eyes); hasn’t made mention of anybody else, not for a long time and there’s no strange, unfamiliar coats hung up, no heels or flats, no wafts of strange perfume in the air.

‘I…’ he manages, his voice very, very soft; finds his arm unfolding of its own volition, dropping the files to the sofa, forgotten. ‘I…is this all for me?’

‘Erm, yes,’ John clears his throat, shifts beneath his gaze. ‘Rosie’s already in bed, and – it’s nothing fancy, just takeaway. Fish and chips.’ He starts to unwrap one of the bundles. ‘Still your favourite, right?’ He looks up, suddenly anxious; as though he has cause to be anxious somehow, as though he hasn’t just shifted the world on its axis. Sherlock can’t help but shuffle, glance at the poor present of a Terry’s chocolate orange in his hand, the little sphere staring up at him accusingly like the blasted sun he keeps forgetting about. Stupid, pointless ecliptic facts.

‘Oh, wait, here,’ John seems oblivious to his inner torment, steps around behind him, ‘Let me take your coat, don’t want to get boiling. You alright?’ he seems to take note of Sherlock’s silence for the first time, folding the Belstaff carefully over his arm. ‘Something…happen at the Yard?’

‘No,’ Sherlock watches as he hangs the coat up with care, glances back with a ready smile, ‘Only, I. Erm.’ Like a child holding out a clay figure they created at nursery, he holds out the chocolate and John makes a surprised, but undoubtedly pleased sound.

‘Oh! Cheers.’ He grins at him and then reaches out to give him a one-armed hug. ‘We’ll have some of that later in front of the telly. Ready to eat now? Here.’

He shows Sherlock to his seat – in reality, an abundance of cushions on the floor and Sherlock folds himself up among them while John puts the finishing touches to the table – ketchup and brown sauce with salt and vinegar, and a large bottle of lemonade that he pours into wine-glasses.

‘You once said chips and wine were a bad mix,’ he tells Sherlock as he fills his own glass. ‘So, I’m, ah, making do, I hope that’s okay.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock plucks the word out from somewhere; the Mind Palace seems to have turned sideways, like a ship on a vicious sea and all of his words and letters have slid down the floorboards to fall into faraway suites and rooms, like scrabble cubes he’s sent flying. The _Yes_ is the only thing he can come up with using the letters that have fallen close to hand; one-word syllables. He has _got_ to stop giving one-word syllables.

John, of course, notices straight away; hesitates, straightens up, hovers like the poor attempt at a waiter Sherlock himself once attempted to be. ‘You okay?’

‘Um.’ Sherlock can’t speak, clears his throat. There’s a lump there; hard, like the ones he gave himself as a boy, whacking his head on the roof of the small and secret places he tried to squirrel away in – and then desperately try and wriggle out of. It had rarely been without injury. ‘I, erm…’ He looks away, humiliated by his own behaviour, head trembling, mouth trembling more, an unwelcome sting to the eyes that glistens his vision, throws everything to sea, floundering with sudden, salty moisture.

‘What is it?’ John hurries around to his side, crouches beside him. ‘Sherlock, what – what is it, what’s - what’ve I done? Oh,’ he glances where Sherlock’s looking, at the table set out, the rose, the expectations and his face falls, even as his hand lands on his back. ‘I’m sorry – it’s not your thing, this, is it? I’ve messed up, haven’t I?’

‘No,’ Sherlock shakes his head because that’s not it, because John doesn’t understand; hates how choked he sounds. ‘No, it’s just – it’s not,’ he swallows and confesses, voice smaller than he’d wish it to sound: ‘I… didn’t get anything for you.’

He’s ashamed; of this thoughtless oversight, of a clear expectation that he’s failed to meet, again. Once more, he’s missed the point by a mile; missed the feelings at the heart of the matter and no doubt has disappointed. He’s long thought John a practical man, used to comfortably rubbing shoulder-to-shoulder with sentiment; understanding societal practice of when to feel it, when to apply it, and when to offer it up to others. But he’s also the kind of man who would, in the past, plan an evening out for one of his insipid girlfriends and then huff and puff while getting ready on the night because he was exhausted from a day at the surgery, or crime-solving, before tugging at his collar, putting on a huge smile and going out anyway. Sherlock had wanted to…give him _something,_ wanted to step outside the Mind Palace for a moment to offer John some small token, some sign that he understood what day it was and that certain expectations were wrought and that he wanted John to know that somebody cared for him. A quick trip to the Tesco store, he hoped, would be sufficient.

How utterly foolish of him to think so; it’s clearly not enough. _He_ is never enough.

‘Wh – no,’ John, to his surprise, laughs. ‘Sherlock.’ He settles down next to him, stretching out his legs. ‘Sherlock, listen to me. Look at me, it’s alright.’

And because Sherlock can’t think of anything else to do right now, he does exactly what he’s told.

‘Do you remember…’ John bites his lower lip; taps the table, ‘what we talked about, with Ella? Talking about not just…giving your best and only your best, because there’s nothing more you can give – but also about – about accepting things? I don’t mean the death-threats we get on a daily basis,’ (Sherlock smirks at that, despite himself), ‘I mean the – the good things, the things that – the people who love you want to give to you, because they want to make you happy.’

Sherlock purses his lips. (They’ve gone over a _lot_ of things with Dr. Thompson). John huffs, levels his gaze.

‘I did this,’ he indicates the table, ‘because I wanted to do something that would make you happy. Something for _you,_ Sherlock. And I really don’t get what you’re talking about, not getting me anything, because you – you’ve given so much, Sherlock,’ he brings his index finger down like the softest sort of axe. ‘So, _so_ much. My daughter – _our_ daughter,’ he points upwards at the ceiling, ‘is asleep upstairs right now, safe and sound, and you know what, I still can’t believe that, that I’m a dad – that I’m _her_ dad and that’s because of you. That’s _all_ because of you. Because you kept me safe, you kept Mary safe for as long as you could and you’ve looked after us, all of us. You gave everything you could, without being asked, _you look after people,_ Sherlock; you deserve to be happy. It’s not quid pro quo; it’s just _me_ doing something nice for _you,_ because believe me, it’s long overdue.’

He smiles, reaches out to run a hand through one side of Sherlock’s hair, pushing back curls like a tide for a moment, before letting his palm cup Sherlock’s cheek, his shoulder. ‘I just thought you deserved a bit of a break. Okay? This is for you – and you don’t have to – to worry, about reciprocation or – or trying to match it, because this is me just doing something I thought might tick. It doesn’t even scratch the surface of all the things you’ve given me. Oh, come here,’ he sighs, tugging and pulling Sherlock into his arms, fitting himself around him like a friendly koala. ‘Come here, you big – I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, right into his ear. ‘Bit much, yeah? I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, I’m sorry.’

‘No, erm…’ Sherlock protests, wiping his nose over his shoulder, feeling horribly vulnerable – but also feeling, he suspects, a lot safer about it with John than he would be with anybody else. ‘It’s lovely, John. I just… Nobody’s ever… done anything like this for me before.’

‘New things?’ John wrinkles his nose before pulling his sleeve down and gently wiping his face for him. ‘Can’t think why.’ He smiles, slightly guiltily, to take the sting out of it and Sherlock concedes the truth of that as John presses their foreheads together, briefly. ‘Bit of a first for me too, if it’s any consolation. I usually just cheat and let them pick the restaurant.’

That _does_ make Sherlock laugh; of course, of course John would. Anything to please his lady-friends – none of whom there have been for a long, long time now, not since before Mary.

He lets John rub his thumb over damp cheeks to wipe away the rest of the moisture before cupping his face carefully in his hands, his fingerprints pressing into Sherlock’s skin, his lifelines tracing the lines of Sherlock’s own jaw. They smile at each other for a moment and then John leans in to kiss him, a soft, gentle thing, nuzzling their noses together, before drawing back and moving his lips up to kiss his forehead, long and lingering. Sherlock’s brow unfurrows; his brain ceases to race; he _relaxes._

‘Want to eat later?’ John murmurs finally, drawing back. ‘I can just put this in the oven, if you need a bit of –’

‘No, no,’ Sherlock protests; the scent of vinegar from the bundles are climbing towards his nose and mouth in a wafting, wonderful steam, making him salivate; suddenly, he’s hungry. Grasping his glass, he takes a huge gulp of his lemonade, shaking himself as the sour sweetness shudders his throat, he coughs, pulls himself together. ‘I – this is fine. It’s all fine. Come, John,’ he sniffs, determined; makes a sudden show of waving his hand impatiently, gloss over the fact that he’s used one of their oldest adages – _sentiment,_ pure and simple. _‘A la table._ The food won’t appreciate itself.’

John grins, getting to his feet, still watching him. ‘Fair enough. Oh – wait.’ Turning on his heel, hurries across the room to the mantlepiece; rattles around, comes back with both the skull and the matches, usually kept on high for the fire (and pointedly out of Rosie’s reach). Striking a match, he lights the two candles in the middle of the table and then carefully – so carefully – places the skull over the top of the candles, a grinning pumpkin made of bone. Sherlock watches the light dance off the roof of the skull through the eyeholes; it’s calming, anchoring, appreciated.

‘Candle for the table,’ he murmurs, his anxiety displaced by mischief and what feels like very real happiness; even better when he finds that John has brought him the battered jumbo sausage.

‘More romantic,’ John mutters briskly and unwraps his cod.

*

Later, after they’ve eaten their fill – the chips golden and perfect and from one of Sherlock’s favourite chippies in London – and are washing up in the kitchen, Sherlock becomes very aware of John watching him, with a gentle sort of gaze, like the twinkle of a single, visible star on the foggier nights in London. Fanciful perhaps, but true; a roundness of presence, shining steadfast and difficult to ignore.

Turning, he smiles at the look on John’s face and holds out an arm in welcome, _come here._ Carefully, John steps into his space, both arms wrapping themselves around his waist and nuzzling into his chest, a kind of happy grunt emerging as he rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s shirt and they stand like that, with the bristling water of the kettle and the ticking of the clock.

‘You do know that you deserve good things, right?’ John asks finally, craning his neck up to look at him. ‘I know I’ve been an idiot before now, but I love you, Sherlock, I really, _really_ love you. _Rosie_ loves you. We wouldn’t survive without you.’

Sherlock highly doubts that last part – John is nothing if not resilient – but he doesn’t know precisely _what_ to say, instead, all his words evading him for the second time, and he simply nods; watches John watching him think.

‘We’ll get there, eventually,’ he chuffs finally, kindly, and tugs Sherlock back in, letting him bury his face in John’s shoulder, in the tender _thud-thud_ of his neck; the safest place in the world to be. Thinks about all his darkest, most secret hiding places – in childhood, in the difficult Purgatory of student life and even as a debatable adult; huddling in the dark and in the doss-houses, wondering if and when he would be discovered and – much like the flickering fire-lights inside his friend the skull – contemplating the thin line between that and hope.

They wind up cuddling on the sofa in front of a repeat of _Lewis,_ Sherlock’s head pillowed in John’s lap and tea-mugs balanced on their thighs, volume turned down low and the subtitles on so they don’t wake Rosie. John shares the chocolate, feeding the segments to Sherlock with a resigned air (‘Lazy bastard.’ ‘The butler did it.’ ‘The butler – Sherlock, _there’s no bloody butler for miles around!’_ ) even as he strokes his hair, eyes on the television. Sherlock lounges, feeling the lull of the action on the screen and John above him; takes his hand as it retreats from feeding him his fourth slice of chocolate, these hands which have held a gun for him, punched people for him, been trapped in handcuffs for him – and yes, hurt him too, in their time, but then soothed and healed the wounds in apology and then hesitated to touch him at all, for a long time afterwards.

Until Sherlock took both the initiative, and John’s hand in his own.

He kisses those knuckles, long and reverent; John smiles over his head and presses that same smile against his hair for a long moment, before draping his arm around him, across his chest, the palm of his hand relaxing right over the beat of Sherlock’s heart (sadly there, alas; all too present like it’s always been, despite what Mycroft said and Sebastian Wilkes said and Sally Donovan and Anderson and just about anybody else who’s met him has said) and settles there; steady.

*


End file.
